Finding Heaven
by Red Wasabi
Summary: He did not know, though it was hardly if anyone cared to ask, whether his long life had been a blessing, or a curse.


Ok, here is the Deal, this is just a preveiw of a story that I have in mind, I'm posting the teaser chapter to see if there is any interest in it. There is time travel involed, but don't ask me how just yet!.() Please R+R And tell me if you all are interested. Enjoy!

BTW working title is: Finding Heaven

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He did not know, though it was hardly if anyone cared to ask, whether his long life had been a blessing, or a curse.

He sat, alone, like usual, in a room that was dark. The room was filled with mechanical parts, hollowed out computers, stillness. This was his room. It was cold, and damp, like most of the rooms in the complex. It was hard to have an effective system running underground, and he was too tired to try and design a better one. Besides most of the young ones, that was what they all seemed to be these days, they were used to going without. They'd gone without for most of their lives, for some of them all their lives.

How many years had it been since he'd gotten to eat fresh, non-dehydrated food. He couldn't remember, just like he could no longer recall how long it had been since he had heard laugher, singing, joy. There was no room for those things, not any more, not with the rebellion in full swing.

He looked down at his hand, was this really the hand of a warrior? The nails were flaking, and the skin sagged, it looked like bones with flesh covering spread thinly over them. And it ached. Oh how it ached, it plagued him in the nights, kept him up, unable to work or rest. Too many years of hard fighting, they had taken their toll on his hands; on his entire body. If he even thought about getting up and moving his joints would scream out in protest, which is why he stayed here now. In this motorized chair. Softly he sighs and hangs his head, he doesn't even have the strength to move himself anymore.

All he had left were these young ones, and they didn't even know his name. And he wasn't even sure if he cared. After all he was sending most of them out to die anyway, why should he get attached? Why should he get to know them, only to have them ripped away, like—his brothers, his wife. The guilt he felt for training them in the Art of War and battle, had long since ceased. Sometimes, when he was deep in a fitful dream of the past, tiny strands would reach out and grab at him; but by the time the pains in his body awoke him again, he could no longer recall why he was crying. So he would forget it, and go on training them.

He almost felt like crying now, thinking about them. His brave brothers, all who had long since gone. Their many children; most of whom he suspected were dead, or wished it anyhow. Yellow light from the hallway slides through the slates of his blinds, casting shadows on his face that make him look like more of the ghost of the Turtle he feels like. Would it be this way, if they had lived? Would it have come down to this, survival at all cost type of life? He shakes his head, no it won't help him thinking about the what ifs, what you want to do, and what you do are two entirely separate things. The rebellion can't be helped by what ifs.

He presses a little black button next to his hand, and slowly his chair moves forward, towards his work bench. He used to remember a time when he loved to work, loved to figure things out, to create something new. Now he hates it, he knows that everything he creates will just kill one of his young ones, and hopefully always hopefully more of the other sides. His gnarled hands drift slowly over various parts, all useless on their own, but in his hands, he can make them dangerous, and he is teaching them how to do the same, it will be his legacy.

Carefully he starts to build, what it will be in the end, he doesn't know. A gun maybe, but most likely a bomb. One that ones of his children will sacrifice themselves to kill the enemy with. Or maybe it will be Raph's, child, or Leo's, or Mikey's. He doesn't really know who's child, grandchild, great grandchild, is who's anymore. It doesn't matter anyway, they all die the same.

The screwdriver he was holding slips from his hands and falls to the floor, he doesn't have enough energy to pick it up. It seems like such a long time ago, years before the rebellion, before he as reduced to teaching generations of his family how to effectively kill themselves.

Who had been the first? He couldn't remember, it was all blurred in his mind. He did however recall how shocked they were, he was too, that was back when something could still surprise him. Now the fact that their mutant genetics were the dominate ones, no longer surprised him. He no longer blinked at the sight of scores of their kind milling about underground. He only recalled with a wistful smile, a time when they were thrilled to discover that fact. Their children looked just like them, so would their grandchildren, and great grandchildren, and everysingle cursed progeny descended from them.

His hands began to shake, he dropped his work down on the table, now was not the time to be working on such a delicate piece of technology. His knobby hand reached up and began rubbing at the baggy skin between his eyes. Why had they ever thought that that was a blessing? They should have killed their children, spared them from the hell that would define their lives, and their descendets.

Michelangelo had been the firt causalty, poor sweet, funny Mikey. He'd been out on patrol, a mob had attacked him, he never had a chance against them all. Life had seemd so grim when he was no longer there, so bleak. But it would get worse in the years to come. Thats when the bills started to come. Oh those hateful bills, and those men on Tv, all claiming to do this for the human race, for the safty of the citizens. Then they began to name them, cruel things, like monsters, freaks, demaon. They became abomanations, the kind that need to be caught, disected, and then killed.

He sighed and moved to the door way, soon someone would be here to move him. He had to train the young ones, had to make sure that they would continue to rebel, continue to die. Abomonations, they were indeed, but only because the humans had made them so.

Someday this rebellion will end, wherter it will be because there is only one more of their kind left standing, or because enough humans finally will have come to their senses. He doens't know, he hopes for the latter.

The door opens, and young female quietly walks in and looks respectfully at him. Her skin is rough, and several light green patches dot it, the sign of a body that has gone through many battles, and has many scares to show for it. If she were to turn around he is sure that her shell would be similarly marked. He nods to her in aknowlegdment, she blinks blankly at him. That is all the gretting he will get out of her, he dimly remembers a time when his kind greeted each other warmly, with high fives, and hugs, but he supposes she does not even know what those things are. Her mother was probably dead not long after she was born, and there is no point in loving what you will soon leave.

"It is time for the evening conditioning Sir," She tells him quietly. He notices that her eyes are hard and empty, but that is not unusal for one of the rebels. They have all seen and done to much in their short lives. Even shorter lives. She is waiting for his repsonse, he knows that, she will not act without his repsonse, she has been conditioned far to well for that. He wants to tell her he knows it is time, time for him to go and train the youngest of the rebels, train them to die for their cause. To breed then die, thats all they can do. But as he recalls someone once telling him long ago, what you want to do and what you do, are two seperat thing entirly. And he's learned that lesson in spades.

"Then we should go now." is all he replies to the young warrior, the killing, and dieing machince that he has fashioned. She swiftly walks behnind him and begins to wheel him out into the pasty light of the hallays, his dark room calls out for him to stay within, to avoid impacting his sins further today. But he knows, he cannot avoid his duty. He knows that one day he will die and they will have to function all on their own, he is just trying to impart evrything he knows to them before that day. He also knows, that when he does die, he is going straight to Hell; but he is willing to pay that price if only for his races survival.


End file.
